Scraps of Velvet
by Lady Elwen
Summary: A young Irish immigrant, working for Medda, meets a newsie. Not yet finished. PG13 only b/c I'm not sure what's to come.


_*Author's note: Hello again, everyone. This is my friend Jessi's story. Twas a request of mine to have her write one for me with my beloved Skittery in it and, being the wonderful person/writer she is, she did! I love it, so I'm posting it for her. I dunno how often it'll be updated, so bear with me…_

_*Disclaimer: Not mine, nor hers, though we often wish they were. Ah well._

*Jessi note: I finally forced myself to sit down and write something, so here goes the first part of your Skittery love affair. ::winks:: Sorry, no romance thus far. I'm still not sure about the title, so it's prone to change, though I think I'm finally OK with the name I chose for you. Both are Irish and have interesting meanings. Sybil= prophetess. Faraday= inquisitive.

***  
"Scraps of Velvet"

The day had been long. Sybil Faraday collapsed into one of Irving Hall's velvet armchairs in the green room, plucking the ornate feathers from her curly blond hair. "Whew, I tell ya, Medda…" A hint of an Irish accent seeped through her voice as she directed her attention to the legendary dancer that had gotten her this job as an entertainer a few days ago. "Those boys sure put up a bustle. I got so caught up in all that yelling that I could have easily lost my footing with those dance numbers."  
Medda grinned as she brushed out her long mop of red hair, glancing at her youngest showgirl in the mirror. "No worries, honey. Every girl gets the sweats the first couple times, but it gets easier." She spun around gracefully, winking with her charismatic charm. "Promise. Now you get off to bed at a good time tonight. Lay easy on the writin', huh? There are only so many books you can begin and finish in one night and you've got the rest of your sweet young life to do it. Just you wait, and those publishers will come a'running once your stuff gets out." She swung a leg unto an armchair to unlace her boots.   
Sybil smiled wearily and rolled her eyes. "I highly doubt I'll get anything published. There are far more experienced writers out there other than me. Besides," she pushed herself from the chair and began untying her satin dress (the damn corset had been suffocating her all night) while talking. "I dream better knowing I've accomplished something, even if it's never seen by anyone but you."  
Medda straightened, hands on hips with an air of scolding. "Now, you listen here, my Irish tart." She shook a manicured finger in Sybil's direction. "There's a lot of talent in that small body of yours, and I don't mean just performing." She paused, a grin lighting up her face. "Though I must say, just when I thought Jack Kelly and his crew didn't need any more reasons other than myself to swing by, you seem to have renewed their enthusiasm." The elder entertainer clucked her tongue and shook her head with mock disdain. "I think I have myself competition for the first time since I was your age." She went back to unlacing her boots. "You've got those fellows hooked!"  
Sybil snorted carelessly, acting as if the compliment meant nothing, but couldn't hide the rising blush of her cheeks (which wasn't caused by the washcloth she was using to wipe off the stage makeup either). "You're still their primary favorite, Medda. I'm just a fresh face with less skill and a soft voice. They'll lose interest soon enough, if they even have any."  
"Oh, enough already!" Medda heaved off the boots and let them drop to the floor. The girl looked up from toweling off her face, eyes wide.  
The older woman whisked over to Sybil and gripped her by the shoulders, gaze stern, and fixed on the young immigrant's pale blue eyes. "Now, I've been around for some time, young lady. I've seen many people come and many people go. I've seen ordinary girls like you make it big; I'd know since I was one of them. But you," she sat Sybil down on the vanity's stool, stroking the girl's hair with her fingers as she perched on the vanity's edge. "In you I see more than a good entertainer. You've got a way with words, a keen mind that's always expanding, and you crave to know just where you belong in the world."   
Her voice went soft, eyes getting distant with reminiscence. "I found my spot and won't budge until the day I die. I'm pretty assured by that fact, but still wonder if I coulda done anything different…" She sighed and blew a rebellious curl from her aging but elegant face. "I always wanted to be a star. My mother always used to frown while I practiced routines with the other girls. She'd say 'God looks down on the devil's form of fun. It ain't ladylike. Give up while you're ahead, Medda.'" The woman rolled head back to gaze up at the ceiling. "But I never listened. I'd sneak out to late night shows and memorize the show tunes and dances. I finally got up the nerve to audition for a spot at a show house right up the street when I was old enough."   
She smiled fondly, looking back at the spellbound Sybil. "I got in, became a neighborhood favorite, and eventually made enough to start up my own place. And now…" She made a little gesture with her shoulders as if to say "here I am."  
Sybil grinned and added her own touch to the story. "And now, you're a legend and every guy's favorite girl in town."  
Medda playfully swatted the back of Sybil's head. "Whaddah ya mean 'in town?' I'm every guy's favorite in all of New York!"   
They both giggled for a few moments before she finished. "But I'm serious, girly." Medda tilted Sybil's chin upward. "You keep those dreams of yours and the possibilities are endless."  
Sybil felt a wave of hope run through her as she embraced her employer and friend in this giant new city.   
That night, she dreamed of dashing men throwing delicate flowers at her feet as she sang one of her poems on a moonlit stage.


End file.
